


The King Is Dead; Long Live The King

by breathtaken



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: BDSM, F/M, M/M, Multi, Under-negotiated Kink, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex, Yuri is 15
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-11 17:07:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10469964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: “Yura, I’ve been thinking. You’re making your senior debut this year and I don’t know yet if I’ll be there when you do, and as your former rink mate, it’s my duty to make sure you’re prepared.” Yuri’s about to hit back thatfinally, he fucking notices,but Viktor barrels on:“Some of the senior skaters are a decade older than you. You’re still a minor, but they might not remember that. Or care.”Yuri’s halfway to pointing out that being younger is entirely to his advantage when it suddenly hits him that Viktor’s not talking about skating.Or, Yuri is the heir to Viktor’s crown in more ways than one.





	1. The Warning

**Author's Note:**

> This fic uses **yurikobutachan** ’s [Comprehensive YOI Timeline](https://yurikobutachan.tumblr.com/post/155882869407/comprehensive-yoi-timeline) in as far as it sets Series 1 during the 'real world' 2014-15 season. The recent [new information](http://thatshamelessyaoishipper.tumblr.com/post/158775632752/it-seems-that-there-has-been-some-new-information) appears to have thoroughly jossed this, but hey. Occupational hazard. 
> 
> There will be additional pairings to come in later chapters; tags will be added when the chapters go up.

The warning comes – ironically enough – without any warning at all, when Yuri and Viktor are watching Katsuki skate Eros for what must be the third time that morning, technically near-perfect but his expression all wrong, like the idea of eros is a puzzle he’s still trying to solve.

Yuri rolls his eyes. He could show him eros. Except no, because _eww._

He sneaks a glance at Viktor, who despite his protégé’s shortcomings still manages to look smug, leaning against the barrier with one finger pressed against his lips and a smile that says he knows something no-one else does. It’s infuriating, and he doesn’t let up even when Yuri sees the other Yuuri botch the landing of his quad Salchow out of the corner of his eye, barely staying on his feet.

He’ll have to get used to Viktor looking at him eventually. _Idiot._

Yuuri’s quad-triple is only a little sloppy and his last spin’s admittedly decent, and he manages not to swallow his own tongue when Viktor stands up straight and gives him a round of applause before sending him off for lunch.

When Viktor turns to Yuri he looks so uncharacteristically serious that for a moment Yuri thinks something has happened.

He folds his arms. “What?”

“Yura, I’ve been thinking. You’re making your senior debut this year and I don’t know yet if I’ll be there when you do, and as your former rink mate, it’s my duty to make sure you’re prepared.” Yuri’s about to hit back that _finally, he fucking notices,_ but Viktor barrels on:

“Some of the senior skaters are a decade older than you. You’re still a minor, but they might not remember that. Or care.”

Yuri’s halfway to pointing out that being younger is entirely to his advantage when it suddenly hits him that Viktor’s not talking about skating.

And he doesn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed.

“Viktor, what the fuck.”

It’s supposed to be rhetorical, so of course Viktor answers:

“I’m talking about sex.”

The silence that follows seems to have sucked all noise from the atmosphere.

“Oh my God,” Yuri says to the rink at large, wishing for probably the first time in his life that Katsudon would come back so that he could get out of this conversation. “How do I make you stop.”

“Yurotchka –”

“Don’t _Yurotchka_ me!” He gives Viktor his special _no-seriously-don’t-fuck-with-me_ glare, even though it’s never worked on the asshole before and it almost certainly won’t start working now. “Look, I know what sex is. I’ve even had it.” Well, not quite, but he did finger Katya Vasilieva behind a bush in Victory Park last summer, _and_ made her come, which he figures is close enough for the purpose of this conversation. “So can you just not.”

“Okay.” He can practically see the cogs turning as Viktor considers asking, and then decides that actually he’d rather not. “Look. I’ve been a senior. I know what it’s like. I just want you to be prepared. Trust your instincts, and don’t let anyone do anything that makes you uncomfortable.” He holds up a hand when Yuri opens his mouth. “Whatever that might be.”

“The only thing making me uncomfortable is you right now,” Yuri protests, but sighs inwardly when Viktor gives him a look he recognises as having been borrowed from Yakov, that he’s sure really shouldn’t be effective on his stupid face. “Okay, _fine._ I won’t let the big bad figure skaters pressure me into sex. Can I go for lunch now?”

“Sure.” Viktor’s sunny smile is back, and Yuri suppresses the familiar urge to hit him as he stomps off to the changing room, because as angry as he is with Viktor for fucking _retiring_ right before Yuri’s senior debut and dropping everything to coach _Yuuri Katsuki_ of all people, Yuri wants to win, and he knows that means suffering this indignity, and suffering Viktor in general.

Katsuki is still in the changing room, tying his shoelaces. He looks up quickly enough when the door opens that Yuri assumes he was expecting Viktor.

“Did he make you angry?” he asks, not particularly astutely.

One particular survival tactic Yuri’s learned from his grandfather is: when faced with a question you don’t want to answer, respond with another question.

“Have you ever had sex at a competition?”

Katsudon blinks. “No?”

Yuri snorts. “Figures,” he replies, mostly to himself, as he swings a leg up onto the bench and starts to unlace his skates.

It makes him feel a little better, anyway.

 

* * *

 

 

Fucking Viktor. If his goal was to protect Yuri’s innocence or something then he’s had exactly the opposite effect, because now the idea has lodged itself in Yuri’s mind and stays there even after he returns to Russia, through the interminable summer months where almost every moment he isn’t on the ice he’s at the barre, and there’s barely time to eat and sleep, let alone anything else.

He’s always known that being serious about figure skating means abandoning any possibility of a normal life, as though he knows what that’s like anyway. He doesn’t have friends, only fellow skaters; even the few girls he’s kissed are all skaters. He even lives with his coach (well, now with his recently-divorced-from-each-other _coaches_ , in a particularly awkward turn of events). The idea of meeting someone outside of skating is an utterly foreign one.

So in the moments he snatches for himself, he considers. Imagines, daydreams, even. Whose eye he’ll catch first, if they – _he_ , he reminds himself, Viktor definitely meant his competitors – will take Yuri to his room or simply a dark corner somewhere. What his body will feel like under Yuri’s hands, his lips around Yuri’s cock. Visualisation has never been his strong suit, but he finds that doesn’t matter when he can get himself off to the idea of a shadowy male figure kneeling between his legs, while sucking on the index finger of his other hand.

He’s been impatient for his first senior season for years, but now he’s impatient for _this_ too. He’s been carrying adult burdens for years; surely now it’s time for an adult’s reward.


	2. Skate Canada

When Skate America finally crawls around it’s less than a week from his own flight to Canada, and while he simply doesn’t have the time to glue himself to the live feed the way he’d like, Yuri refreshes the ISU website on every break he has, watching as the lead changes back and forth between Leo de la Iglesia and Otabek Altin, with Leo eventually taking the gold on his home turf.

There’s a picture on Leo’s Instagram within half an hour: a podium selfie of him and Guang-Hong Ji looking flushed and happy, and Altin looking flushed and like he doesn’t like being in pictures.

It’s ridiculous, but there’s a moment before he remembers that none of them will be in Canada anyway where Yuri looks between the three of them, and wonders.

Then he says, “Ugh,” mostly at himself for being like this; and shoves his phone back in his bag a little harder than necessary before heading back out rinkside, where he throws himself so thoroughly into his free programme that even Lilia Nikitichna doesn’t have anything critical to say.

Five days later, it takes him a gruelling nineteen hours and three consecutive flights to reach Kelowna, a poxy little city buried in the interior of British Columbia, Canada. He has a shower and a nap in the airport lounge in Amsterdam, and cusses Yakov out for refusing to buy him a vodka in Calgary when he realises that the last leg involves a propeller plane, but they land without crashing and make it out of the airport into the city, where they check into the Delta Marriott and Yuri forces himself to stay up till nine pm watching endless episodes of How It’s Made on the Discovery Channel and refreshing his Instagram.

Miraculously he manages not to jerk awake before half past six the next morning, plays _Bangarang_ by Skrillex out loud on his phone while showering, and is at breakfast by seven and the rink by eight.

While he’s not exactly _friends_ with other skaters in any case, there’s nobody here he’s even friendly with either; and so he doesn’t really communicate with any of the others beyond a polite handshake and greeting, turning away just as quickly to ask Yakov something in Russian or in JJ Leroy’s case, just walking off. Ice time is limited for all of them, and he expects everyone else is as deep in their own preparation as he is in his.

Because this is it. This is his senior debut, and he’s prepared to kick its arse from here to Hasetsu and _win_ that gold, and then Viktor can suck it.

Only metaphorically, of course, because this is Viktor, even if he wasn’t busy being obsessed with Katsudon.

Throughout Yuri’s months of wondering who it’ll be joining him in that dark corner, and what it’ll be like, he’s also wondered periodically just how much of what Viktor has warned him about is something that Viktor was responsible for in the first place. Yuri isn’t blind after all: he can definitely see why people find Viktor attractive (though he’s fairly sure it’s because they don’t actually know him), and he can’t have earned his reputation as figure skating’s hottest bachelor for nothing.

Besides. It would be so like him, to spend a decade fucking his way through seniors and then turn around and act the concerned older brother before Yuri’s even had a chance.

Yuri takes it comparatively easy on the ice that first day, though while making sure he pushes himself just enough to impress anyone looking his way. He ignores his competitors entirely – he knows them all from YouTube at least, if not from seeing them in person, and doesn’t want to be distracted trying to puzzle out their new routines.

He hits the gym after lunch – keeping it light, mostly balance work – and is diligently rolling his problem hamstrings when he senses someone watching him and twists around, glare at the ready just in case it’s JJ Leroy.

It’s not. It’s Esben Lund Mogensen – 18 years old from Denmark, Yuri’s brain supplies, second year in senior competition. Came fourth in his first Grand Prix event last year but sixth in the second, after attempting a quad toe-triple toe he shouldn’t have. Not a threat, unless Yuri forgets entirely how to skate this weekend.

He realises he’s saying something; and Yuri pulls off his headphones, trying to convey the sense of being rudely interrupted.

“Confident for tomorrow?” Esben repeats, as though he won’t have seen Hot Springs on Ice and know exactly what he’s up against.

“Of course,” Yuri hears himself say, a little haughtily, but Esben just grins.

“Well, I’m not surprised. You only have JJ Leroy to worry about.”

Yuri imagines he would be thoroughly bitter about being middle of the pack himself, but Esben seems to be in pretty good humour about it. And it seems like realism, rather than false modesty.

After all, anyone with any sense lets their skating speak for itself.

Esben nods down at Yuri’s legs. “Need help stretching?”

Yuri hesitates, caught off-guard.

He was going to go find Yakov, but.

“Sure.”

It turns out that Esben’s surprisingly easy to talk to. Bitching about the realities of international travel quickly becomes a conversation about favourite countries, which becomes what they love in each place and miss when they’re away.

“You’re lucky having world class facilities in your home country.” Esben’s hands are a firm, steady pressure on Yuri’s shoulders, pushing his chest down against his legs, and the slight pain in his hamstrings is still the good kind of pain. “I had to move here to train seriously.” _Which explains the accent,_ Yuri thinks, _he sounds like a native._ “My mother still sends me a box of liquorice pipes every year for my birthday and Christmas, they’re my favourite Danish candy. It’s not the same as being home though.”

Yuris says to his knees, “You don’t sound sad about it.”

“I wanted it. It’s not always easy, but... we make the sacrifices we make for skating because we want it more than we want anything else. Right?”

“Right,” Yuri agrees, with more honesty than he’s used to when talking to someone else. Most people he either doesn’t know what to say or wishes they didn’t, but Esben’s just... _easy_. Kind of like he imagines Viktor would be, if he weren’t so annoying.

He says as much, and Esben barks a laugh.

“Oh, now this I must hear. I’ve never heard anyone say a bad word about the great Viktor Nikiforov before.”

Yuri is silent for a moment as he moves into a torso stretch, Viktor’s broken promise coming inevitably to mind, and his own feelings on that particular bit of shittiness bubbling all too close to the surface.

Instead he says, “He's on another planet. Like, he's a five-time world champion and he fucks off to coach _Yuuri Katsuki_ instead because he couldn't think of anything surprising to do? What the fuck. And he still thinks I'm a child.”

“Hmm?” Esben murmurs, guiding Yuri's ankle into an over-split.

“He warned me that senior competitions would be full of people trying to have sex with me, and I should be _careful.”_

Yuri immediately thinks better of having brought it up, but when he hears Esben reply, “Hah! That’s a bit rich coming from him,” his thoughts stop dead.

“What?”

He twists around; Esben’s eyes are sparkling. “Viktor's _notorious_ for sleeping with his competitors. Second only to Christophe Giacometti.”

“Seriously?” Yuri demands, because isn’t that particular brand of thoughtless hypocrisy just Viktor all over?

When no words seem sufficiently, he actually throws up his hands. “Augh!”

Esben is laughing again. “You're surprised?”

“No, of course not,” Yuri hits back, coming up and twisting around to switch legs, Esben moving fluently with him. “He just had the nerve to lecture me about horny senior skaters who'd try and destroy my innocence.”

“Your innocence? _Are_ you innocent?”

Esben's tone is still amused, but now there's an intensity to it which wasn't there before; and Yuri is suddenly very aware of the warm fingers encircling his bare ankle as everything he's thought over the months since Hasetsu suddenly crashes through his mind all at once, connecting itself here, to this moment.

He levers himself up to a sitting position to meet Esben's eyes, and notices that they’re blue and a little too wide to be classically handsome, and there are freckles on his nose.

The moment has thickened around them without warning, become hot and heavy with potential; and Yuri sucks a breath into lungs that suddenly seem a little tight, and tries to put meaning into his words when he replies, “Don't know the meaning of the word.”

He's half expecting to be kissed, right here; but Esben just grins, quick and sharp-toothed, and trails his fingers across the hollow of Yuri’s ankle in a barely-there caress before lowering it back to the ground. “Come to my room after dinner. We can watch a movie.”

“Yeah...”

Yuri lets the word trail off. It’s _hours_ yet till dinner.

“Cool. I’m in 302. Just come down when you want.” Esben gives him a light shove to the shoulder. “Right. My turn.”

After that, it's like nothing was ever said. They talk a little more while Yuri helps Esben stretch, and then retreat into their separate corners of the gym. Yuri's excited, he can admit that much to himself, a pleasant flutter in his belly – but it pales into insignificance next to the importance of this weekend, and he has no intention of letting himself get distracted.

So he finishes his off-ice training and follows it with two hours of Lilia picking his every move apart at the barre, showers, eats his special pre-competition dinner, and promises Yakov he'll be in bed by ten before making his way down to room 302, and knocking at the door.

Esben opens it. “Hey,” he says. His dirty blonde hair is still drying and he's wearing a plain white T-shirt which shows the play of his shoulder muscles as he turns away.

“Hey,” Yuri replies, following him inside and kicking off his sneakers, and hesitates for a moment before getting up on the bed beside Esben. There is a chair, but that's not how he's hoping this evening will go.

It's weird. He'd never have hesitated before getting on someone else's bed before – but he's acutely aware he doesn't know the rules here yet. Still, Esben hardly looks awkward, leaning back against a pile of plumped-up pillows with his legs crossed, flicking through the on-screen TV guide. His red sweatpants have 'DANMARK’ printed down the outside thigh, and his feet are bare, covered in a similar network of tape and plasters to Yuri's own.

Yuri pulls off his own socks and throws them vaguely in the direction of his sneakers. Might as well get comfortable.

Esben puts on a Western, already half an hour in – which is a sign, Yuri thinks. He gives it a couple of minutes of token attention but can’t really follow it, the characters are excessively mumbly and it's not like he gives a shit anyway, so he's mostly just fiddling with his cuff while trying to not-too-obviously glance at Esben out of the corner of his eye.

He's alright-looking, Yuri supposes. Fit, of course, but they all are. Sandy hair that manages to look artfully tousled but without any apparent effort on his part, freshly shaved, even. A hint of cologne, he thinks, something woodsy.

He could just open his mouth and ask, “So are we gonna fuck or not?” He could just lean in and press his mouth to Esben's, and trust the rest to take its course.

He could.

He could, conceivably, have read this entirely wrong.

Esben, inevitably, catches him staring.

“What?” Yuri snaps.

Esben grins, but there's an edge to it, and that close, hot feeling is back as he puts his hand on Yuri's knee and kisses him.

It's good. Warm and firm and wet, the sounds of televised gunfire just background to the sounds of lips and tongues, meeting over and over. The hand on his knee presses down as Esben shifts towards him, and when his other hand rests on the back of Yuri's neck, Yuri figures he should probably touch him too and reaches out, finding one shoulder and empty air with the other hand.

He feels Esben smile against his mouth. “Come on, up,” he murmurs, and Yuri isn't really sure what he wants but rolls up onto his knees anyway, leaning in. He's a little taller like this, and his hands push beneath Esben's T-shirt, tracing over the muscles there.

 _Yeah,_ he decides, _this is nice_ , and he's definitely ready for it to become more.

Esben tilts his chin back, kissing down his neck – and _oh,_ Yuri can't help gasping a breath as the sensation seems to trace a direct line to his cock.

That’s it. He can’t wait any more; and he reaches out blindly for the crotch of Esben’s sweatpants.

It’s awkward at first: he doesn’t quite know how to angle his hand, whether to try and grasp or just rub with a flat palm, but Esben’s humming into his mouth, one hand dropping to his arse and pulling it forward and then palming him, and _oh_ this is good, yeah _, yeah_.

“Take these down,” Esben says, though he’s the one doing it, pushing Yuri’s sweatpants and boxers down and drawing his cock out, his warm grip impossibly good and Yuri fully hard in his hand now, wanting more, _more._

Esben rocks up onto his own knees and Yuri has to open his eyes to return the favour, but he’s not feeling awkward any more because he’s too busy feeling good, and it isn’t as weird as he thought it might be to pull Esben’s own sweatpants and boxers down and to look at his hard cock, and take it in his hand. He just does what he likes himself and hopes for the best; and it seems to work out just fine because when he comes a few minutes later, gasping into Esben's mouth, it's not long before Esben follows with a soft moan.

It has the potential to get weird again when they're in the bathroom together, taking turns to wash their spunk-covered hands; but Esben meets Yuri's eyes in the mirror – still smiling – and says, “I like coming, the night before an event. It helps me relax. Takes the edge off the nerves.”

“I'm not nervous,” Yuri replies automatically.

“No? That famous Russian discipline, right?”

Yuri shrugs. Lilia Baranovskaya is an even harder taskmaster than Yakov, which he wouldn't have thought possible this time last year; but he also wouldn't have thought he could ever be beaten by the same Yuuri Katsuki who crashed out in Sochi, even with Viktor propping him up.

Nerves mean failure, inevitably; and work, when it’s paired with his kind of talent, means success.

Esben offers him a drink, which turns out to be sparkling water in a can, slightly warm. It's all feels bit weird, but definitely better than just leaving now he's gotten what he came for, and he leans against Esben's shoulder as they watch a couple of episodes of something about search and rescue helicopters, and it's nice.

He wonders if this counts as having had sex. Someone else got him off which is a first, but on the other hand they didn't even get undressed. And he certainly doesn't feel any different. Perhaps the problem is that people nowadays don't only fuck each other one way, and the old rules don't work any more.

It'll have to count, then. He's not going to ask. That would _definitely_ be weird.

When ten o’clock rolls around he makes his excuses, and in reply Esben leans over and kisses him once more.

“This was fun. Let's do it again.”

“Tomorrow?” Yuri asks, not giving himself time to overthink it.

“Sorry, I'm meeting a friend.” There's something about the way he says it, or in the tilt of his smile, that tells Yuri exactly what kind of friend. “But there's the banquet Sunday, and I don't normally stay the whole night.”

It's as good as an invitation, Yuri decides.

“Winner gets their cock sucked?”

Of course, there's no way that would be Esben, and they both know it. But, well. Nothing ventured, and all.

Esben laughs, surprised. “Yeah, alright. You're on,” he says, and holds out his hand.

 

* * *

 

Yuri does well. Not brilliantly, and it smarts to be standing a step down on the podium from someone who's as much of an ass as JJ is, but between Viktor and Lilia’s respective choreography he knows he's pushing his body to the absolute limits of even his formidable talent, and the margin for error is almost non-existent. At this level, one over-rotated quad in the short program and some sloppy footwork in the step sequence of his free is enough to cost him the gold – and if he didn't know it himself, Yakov wouldn't hesitate to inform him.

He tries as hard as he can to keep his face blank on the podium, and thinks he mostly succeeds; it’s only afterwards, pulling Lilia’s painfully tight braid loose from his hair in the privacy of the changing room, that his eyes start to burn at the corners and he has to blink fiercely for a few moments, just in case.

 _Pull yourself together, Plisetsky._ He can’t afford to start doubting now: it’ll kill him like it killed Yuuri in Sochi, and he’s not got the luxury of his very own Viktor to fly half way around the world and save him from obscurity, just because he got wasted and ground up against him at a banquet.

No, he’s always had to rely on himself and himself alone, and that’s not going to change.

 _I_ can _be better than JJ. I_ will _be._

It’s not too cold out but the wind’s up, and Yuri hunkers down in his hoodie as he crosses the road and cuts through the slither of parkland that backs onto the lake.

It's a world away from home, but there are gulls still, because there are always gulls; and he knows how to be alone here, because he always has.

The men's competition was so early that when he eventually returns to the rink it's not even late enough to justify having dinner, and for lack of anything better to do he sneaks into the stands and half-watches the pairs skate, amusing himself by imagining Viktor trying to throw Katsudon and dropping him.

Someone could throw Yuri at the moment, though. Probably. If his body holds out.

Movement a few rows in front of him catches his eye: it's Michael Duvall, the Irish skater, putting his arm around a woman wearing French colours, who Yuri doesn't recognise... and Esben, grinning at them both. He looks relaxed, content despite his fifth place; and Yuri wonders in the space of a moment if they're actually friends, if one of them – or both of them – is who Esben fucked last night. If Yuri will still get that blowjob he was promised.

He knows some women are into that, he’s read enough of what his fans write on the internet. Was it just the men's singles competitors Viktor meant, or the entirety of seniors?

He's thought ever since his encounter with Esben that it was the beginning of something new... but of what?

Suddenly he can't imagine leaving here without finding out.

He gets up, clambers over three rows of seats, ignoring the tutting of some old couple in baseball caps who are probably JJ fans, and plonks himself down on Esben's other side.

“Hey.”

The woman is Aure Djabali, he learns, fourth in women's singles in her second year of seniors and still with that post-competition sheen across her olive skin, black hair in a severe bun and dramatically made-up, as though she came straight up here from the podium. Yuri gives up pretty quickly trying to interpret the body language of her and Michael, or indeed all three of them, when he realises with faint surprise that even though it's not the same as just talking to Esben, he's actually having a good time. They seem to find what he says funny, anyway, and he thinks Esben slaps him on the knee a few times too often for it to be entirely meaningless.

The four of them stick together and grab an early dinner before the banquet, Yuri letting himself be carried along on the wave of their enthusiasm. It's the first time he hasn't spent the majority of a competition weekend at Yakov’s side, but he's not missing it, and hopefully it will give Yakov and Lilia some time to sort out their weird relationship.

He's surprised to find that he likes the three of them. He finds most people annoying, but they're funny and irreverent and don't just want to talk about themselves all the time, and Esben in particular is deeply cynical beneath his good-humoured exterior.

Like everyone in the end though, they do want to hear about Viktor.

“What's it like sharing a rink with a living legend?” Aure leans in closer, shoving poutine onto her fork. They're all taking the post-competition opportunity to carb-load before their coaches catch up with them again.

Yuri shrugs. Without wanting to get within ten miles of how Viktor completely shafted him and he had to chase him to fucking _Japan_ to secure his senior debut choreography, it's difficult to know what's left to say. Eventually he opts for, “He's technically brilliant, of course. But... I dunno. There's something fake about him a lot of the time, but I don't think he even knows he's doing it. When I went to Japan that was the first time I ever saw him behave like a real person.”

Everyone's looking at him a bit too intensely, he realises belatedly, Aure's fork hanging halfway to her mouth and Michael looking _very_ interested indeed.

“With Yuuri Katsuki?” Esben jabs Yuri gently in the side. “Come on, spill. What's _with_ that?”

Yuri hesitates, unsure how much to reveal – but Michael's quicker in any case. “The real question is what took them so long.”

 _He was at Sochi_ , Yuri remembers belatedly.

Of course, then the whole banquet story comes out.

“Nice moves, by the way,” Michael adds, and laughs when Yuri gives him the finger.

“So are they together now then?” Esben asks.

“Don't think so.”

“Is he gonna come back to skating?”

“Dunno. I don't think he does either.”

“He's twenty-seven,” Michael points out. “Even Viktor Nikiforov can't stay on top forever. Perhaps he's just not got it any more and he doesn't want to admit it to everyone.”

“No, he's definitely still got it.”

Yuri can't keep the bitterness entirely from his voice, and even though he's looking at his pizza, he can feel the other three exchanging glances over his head.

“ _Putain_ ,” Aure says with feeling, around a mouthful of fries. “And he was so good with his fingers!”

Yuri's head snaps up.

“You –” He falters, and gives himself a mental shake when he sees how much Michael is enjoying his discomfort. “You had sex with him?”

“Oh yes. Michael introduced us at the NHK last year.” The grin she gives him is one that he thinks an American would call _shit-eating._ “We all hit it off very well.”

 _All of them,_ Yuri thinks. Esben too?

He can’t help looking to him, and Esben grins, apologetic-but-not-really. “I blame these two corrupting me.”

Michael snorts. “Like fuck we did. Remember you told us about those ice dancers.”

It's not like he's shocked or anything. He's cool with whatever. It's just Viktor – it's hard to imagine. Not that he actually wants to imagine Viktor having sex, of course, but it's hard to reconcile the Viktor, or rather Viktors he knows – by turns shallow and flighty, distant and reserved, then suddenly mooning after Katsuki of all people – with someone who might fit as part of this group.

Whatever. Viktor's in Japan now; it’s Yuri that’s here.

He grins, sharp and feral. “Better than being boring.”

Aure wiggles her fingers at him as Michael steals a handful of fries from her plate, and under the table Esben’s hand squeezes Yuri’s thigh, the warm weight of a promise.

They all split up to get ready for the banquet, Yuri making the mistake of flopping down onto his massive bed the moment he gets into his room and having to fight the sudden, overwhelming urge to nap as the effects of travelling half way around the world, skating an entire event and just having scarfed a burger and chips make themselves known with a vengeance. He rolls off the bed and digs around in his skate bag until he finds a half-empty bottle of energy drink, and takes a generous swig before getting his new suit out of the wardrobe and giving it a quick once-over to make sure it’s survived the flight.

When he’s dressed, he stands in front of the full-length mirror and looks himself up and down: the lines of his pale grey suit are impeccable, a pastel-blue shirt and silver tie setting it off to perfection. Viktor is at least good for shopping, if little else: Yuri knows he looks good, and by now he’s pretty damn sure it’s going to pay off.

He meets Yakov and Lilia on the way downstairs, nets himself a sparkling apple juice in a champagne glass, and dutifully lets them parade him around as they work the room. The first hour or so of banquets always involves standing at his coach’s side and making nice with judges, sponsors and federation officials, before any of them can hope to begin the real celebrations – which contrary to his experience in Sochi, do normally take place firmly behind closed doors. (He still thinks it’s a miracle nothing leaked from that evening, given the amount of scandalised bystanders.)

It doesn’t take him long to spot Michael, his comparative height and red hair making him easy to pick out of a crowd. Yuri nods when Michael gives him a wave, because he’s not the kind of person who _waves_ , and Michael goes back to his conversation with two blonde women, one of whom Yuri thinks he recognises as a judge.

It feels like an eternity until Yakov finally lets him go. “No drinking,” he says sternly, “you have an early flight tomorrow,” which Yuri decides actually means _don’t get wasted,_ though he still waits until they’ve left the room to walk past the drinks table, swiping a glass of champagne and downing half of it before anyone can stop him.

No-one tries though, and he ends up leaning against a pillar towards the edge of the room, nursing his drink and scowling slightly. The last thing he wants is to look like he’s hovering awkwardly, waiting to be rescued. The banquet’s still busy, and he looks around for Michael again but can’t find him.

“Hey!” Suddenly Esben has appeared at his shoulder, both hands full of  a large American-style slice of pepperoni pizza. “You’re finally free then.”

“Yeah. I thought the old people would never leave.” Yuri finds himself eyeing Esben’s pizza. Though he couldn’t eat anything like a full slice after earlier, he still asks, “Can I have some?”

Instead of handing it over, Esben holds it up, and Yuri leans in to take as large a bite as he can. It’s weirdly intimate, and he can’t help glancing over Esben’s shoulder just to make sure nobody was looking.

“I saw Michael earlier, but not any more,” Yuri says, mostly to break the moment.

“He's left already. He has some friends among the ice dancers.” Esben winks.

Yuri shrugs, turning to swap his empty champagne flute for a full one.

“Should you be drinking that?”

He gives Esben a flat look. “I'm Russian.”

Esben laughs. “Okay then. Aren't you going to offer me one, at least?”

Yuri would have told anyone else to get their own, but he finds himself turning again and passing a drink to Esben, fumbling it slightly, when Esben’s fingers close over his on the stem of the glass.

If this were a romantic movie, their eyes would meet and Yuri would feel butterflies in his stomach that were nothing to do with the alcohol; but this is real life, so of course he doesn't feel anything of the sort.

He's still impatient to experience getting his cock sucked though, so he gives Esben a look he hopes is suggesting mischief and asks, “Wanna get out of here then?”

“Soon, we're just waiting for...” Esben's words tail off as he turns, letting out a low whistle, and Yuri sees immediately what he's looking at.

Because Aure has just walked in, on the arm of her coach, a pale and petite grey-haired woman who even to Yuri looks incredibly French – and everyone here is dressed up but she's taken it to the next level in a floor-length dress of sunshine yellow satin, her hair still in the same tight bun, and diamond earrings that seem to catch every light in the room.

Not many people can look good in satin, Yuri decides, but Aure would look good in anything – and a glance at Esben shows his smile is nothing short of anticipatory.

Yuri still isn't sure how the evening is going to work out, but he hopes it’s going to involve getting his hands on the body beneath that dress as well, at a bare minimum.

He expects they'll have to wait a while for her, but it can't have been more than a few minutes before he hears a distinctive French voice behind him saying, “Surprise.”

“That was quick,” Esben remarks.

She shrugs. “We spoke to the most important people. My coach remembers what it is to be young.” She looks between them. “Are we waiting for anyone?”

Esben shakes his head. “Michael already left.”

Yuri adds, “He met some ice dancers –”

– but Aure is already saying, “You’re too young for him.”

It takes Yuri a moment to realise it’s him she means.

He scowls reflexively. “What?”

"You're fifteen. He's twenty-two,” Aure replies, as if it should be obvious.

Yuri can’t help looking at Esben, who is very firmly not saying anything. The noise of the banquet suddenly seems particularly loud next to the silence of their little group.

“Okay. Whatever,” Yuri says eventually, because he isn't quite sure whether to be offended, and the last thing he wants is to say or do anything that might put the two of them off. “Shall we go then?”

Aure smiles, reaches behind her for a glass of champagne and drains it in one gulp, slamming the glass back down on the table with a flourish. “I'm ready.”

They make a half-hearted attempt to sneak out, partly for the sake of Aure’s coach and partly for their own amusement – so of course the moment they shut the door behind them, Emil Nekola comes around the corner.

“Hey!” he exclaims. “Can I join you guys?”

“Sure,” Aure is already replying, before Yuri has even had time to figure out what he’s going to use as an excuse, other than the truth. “If you bring booze. Room 445.”

Emil is nodding. “I've got a bottle of vodka in my room. I’ll get it.”

He gets out of the lift at the second floor, and when the doors have closed behind him Yuri asks carefully, “Was that a good idea?”

Esben grins. “We met in France last year.”

Yuri’s pretty sure that _met_ is entirely synonymous with _fucked_ at this point.

Aure adds, “I figured, if he likes it he stays, if he doesn't he goes again, hopefully we get to keep his vodka.”

Yuri shrugs. He supposes he was prepared for there to be four of them anyway, it’s not like the details really matter.

When the lift doors open, he follows the other two down the corridor and waits as Aure puts the keycard into her room door, his dormant anticipation rising again, warm under his skin.

The moment they step through the door Esben and Aure are already kissing, his hands dragging down the satin as she fumbles the keycard behind her looking for the slot that turns on the electricity, until Yuri takes it from her hand and does it for her. All the lights come on – too bright, he thinks, and the other two break apart as he shuts the door behind him and Aure walks into the room proper, pressing switches until only the bedside lights are on.

“That’s better,” she announces, reclining on the bed with her head propped on one hand, skirt draped about her ankles – like a painting, Yuri thinks, though he couldn’t say which one.

She raises an eyebrow, her smile sultry. “Join me, boys?”

The reality is less sexy than the idea: they end up stopping to take off their jackets and shoes first, and Yuri removes his socks for good measure because he doesn’t want to end up in socks without his trousers at any point, and he definitely plans on losing his trousers tonight.

He still beats Esben to it, climbing up the bed and lying down beside Aure, pressing his hand against the small of her back and leaning in to kiss her. She smells of vanilla and unfamiliar hair products and tastes of champagne, and she kisses back as enthusiastically as everything else Yuri’s seen her do.

The mattress dips more than expected behind him and Yuri rolls back a little into Esben’s chest, managing to mostly pull Aure with him, and unable to help his smile as she squeaks a little in surprise before going with it, rolling half on top of him and kissing him. He hums as Esben’s lips find his neck, his hand pulling Yuri’s shirt from the front of his trousers, warm against the skin of his belly.

Of course, then there’s a knock at the door.

“Coming!” Esben calls out, rolling Yuri off him and getting up, Yuri snorting when Aure replies, “Not yet, I hope!”

Yuri flops onto his back, looking over to see Esben letting in Emil, with the promised bottle of vodka. He’s discarded his jacket and tie and his shirt sleeves are rolled up, and he grins when he sees them lying on the bed together, Aure curled into Yuri with an arm resting on top of his shoulder and her lips pressed to his earlobe, the sensation stirring his blood, her breath hot against his cheek.

“Hey!” he exclaims, setting the bottle down on the desk and leaning against the edge.

“Hey,” Yuri echoes, and Aure sits up and says pointedly, “In France, we kiss to say hello.”

Yuri’s not sure if Emil pushes her down to the mattress or she pulls him, but the end result is him lying on top of her, kissing enthusiastically just inches from Yuri’s face. It’s interesting but not exactly arousing, and Yuri is just starting to feel like a spare part when he remembers Esben, who’s found one mug and a ubiquitous hotel room plastic cup, and is opening the bottle.

Yuri gets up and walks over to him, wrapping his arms around Esben’s waist from behind, though he’s far too short to rest his chin on Esben’s shoulder and ends up with his mouth there instead.

“Having fun?” Esben asks, voice low.

“Yeah.” It’s true – it is weird, because he’s not used to anything like this, not just the booze and promise of sex but also hanging out with people who aren’t idiots, and perhaps it’s inevitable that it feels like a moment out of time rather than a true part of his life. But it’s good weird. Fun weird. “You?”

“Oh yeah.” His hand squeezes Yuri’s over his stomach. “I’ve been looking forward to sucking your cock all weekend.”

“Me too,” Yuri says, and it sounds dumb to his ears but he can feel Esben’s huff of laughter, so perhaps it wasn’t that bad.

“Well, I should hope so. Drink?”

“Please.”

It’s good vodka: it doesn’t taste like hairspray, and Yuri’s throat burns pleasantly as it goes down. He watches Esben’s throat work as he drinks, and then bends his head and kisses the hollow of it above his open collar just because he can, feeling him hum in pleasure.

Esben takes the mug out of Yuri’s hand and puts it back on the desk; then his hands are on Yuri’s arse, kneading and squeezing, walking him back towards the bed.

“We made a bet Friday, that the winner gets his cock sucked,” Esben says to the others, though his eyes are locked on Yuri's. “Someone give JJ a call?”

When he actually winks, Yuri thumps him lightly on both shoulders, scowling for good measure. “Asshole.”

Esben grins. “Me or him?”

Yuri figures that if he kisses him, at least he’ll have to stop talking.

Things quickly get hot and heavy, Esben not letting up for a moment while he unbuttons Yuri's shirt, Yuri's skin growing hotter and his trousers tighter. Esben pushes a thigh between his legs and pulls him in by his arse and – _oh_ , that's good, pleasure where he needs it most, fully hard now and already a little dizzy with it.

“Sit,” Esben tells him, pushing him down to the bed, and he shrugs off his shirt when it falls from his shoulders, leaning back on his hands. Then Esben gets to his knees; and time seems to slow for a moment as Yuri thinks inanely, _here goes_.

“My turn next,” Aure says beside him, and of course they're watching but Yuri thinks he'd let the whole audience watch if there were no consequences, that's how much he wants this.

He bites his lip when Esben undoes his trousers, brushing lightly over the hard line of his arousal, and lifts his hips obediently when Esben pulls his trousers and briefs down in one go, freeing his cock at last.

There's an appreciative murmur from his left, but the only thing he remotely gives a shit about right now is Esben wrapping a hand around the base of his cock, grinning – _he never fucking stops_ , of course he'd still be grinning now – before his mouth turns softer and rounder, and he leans in to suck Yuri down.

 _Holy shit_.

It's – well, he sort of knew what it would be like from all the times he got himself off with one finger in his mouth, but knowing it and _experiencing_ it are two different things entirely. It's soft and so _warm_ and wet, Esben’s lips caressing his shaft in a steady rhythm and his tongue moving back and forth against the base of Yuri’s cockhead where he’s most sensitive; he’s struggling to hold on already and his eyes fall shut –

– but no, he wants to watch his cock disappearing between pink lips over and over, wants to see Esben on his knees for him, simply because he beat him.

He forces his eyes back open and weaves one hand into Esben’s hair, careful not to pull but just holding it there. Then two things happen at once: Esben flicks his eyes up to meet Yuri’s and smiles around the head of his cock, before taking him deep and humming low in his throat, and Yuri entirely forgets to hold back.

“I’m gonna –” is all he manages before he’s already coming with a bitten-off groan, straight into Esben’s mouth.

Aure hands him a shot of vodka to wash it down, and it’s only when she looks at Yuri that he realises he’s just sitting there still dazed, his mouth still open and his trousers round his ankles.

“You should get naked,” Aure tells him, stretching her arms up and making her shoulders pop, slow and luxurious. “My turn next.”

Behind her Emil is downing a shot of vodka. He’s lost his shirt at some point, and Yuri watches the play of his muscles as he puts the mug down and wraps his arms around Aure’s waist from behind, bending to kiss her neck. He’s at least a head taller than her and Yuri both, and with the warm glow of his arousal recently faded, Yuri suddenly feels more than a little awkward.

“Give me that,” he demands, holding his hand out for the bottle, and takes a swig before determinedly starting to unbutton his shirt.

He’s just undoing the final button when Esben’s bare legs come into view, and Yuri lifts his head, his gaze travelling up and down Esben’s now fully-naked body like in some shitty movie, catching on his hard cock, flushed pink. There are freckles on his shoulders, and on his arse, and Yuri’s surprised by just how much he suddenly wants to put his mouth on them.

Aure lifts her arms into a fifth position with form that even Lilia would approve of, and Yuri wonders what the hell she’s doing for a moment before he realises that Emil’s reaching beneath one armpit and Esben the other, and they’re undoing her dress.

She catches Yuri’s eye, and winks.

Yuri pulls his shirt off and throws it aside.

She gives Esben a few teasing kisses as she drops her arms, but pushes him gently away when he tries to deepen them, saying, “You’ll spoil Yuri’s view.”

Esben snorts, but obediently backs up a little, leaning against the desk with no apparent care for his nudity, so Yuri has an unobstructed line of sight when Emil lifts the thin straps from Aure’s shoulders and slides them off her arms, and the silk slides from her body like water, pooling on the floor at her feet.

She isn’t wearing underwear.

Yuri takes a moment to get a good eyeful before rocking up onto his feet and going right there, slotting his body against hers and kissing her. He feels Esben press up against him from behind, cock a hard line slotted against the small of Yuri’s back, hand brushing Yuri’s hair aside and lips soft and wet against the nape of his neck, arousing though it’s not enough to get him hard again just yet. He loses himself in it, following a tug on his hair until he’s kissing Emil over Aure’s shoulder, then kissing her again, touching everywhere he can reach as they touch him, even trying and failing to get Emil’s trousers open reaching around Aure.

They end up back on the bed in a tangle of limbs, all four of them just fitting. Yuri takes advantage of Aure facing him to kiss down over her collarbones and take one nipple in his mouth, as he sees Emil bend her leg up from behind and reach beneath, making her moan in pleasure, throaty and unrestrained.

“Wait, wait,” she says, reaching for Emil's hand, and Yuri pauses too, sits up a little. “Yuri. Have you ever licked a girl out?”

“No?” Yuri replies, with some hesitance.

“Then you two should teach him.”

It's... messy. Not that Yuri's a prude or anything, but he is a bit taken aback by just how much it gets all over the lower half of his face, musky and not too dissimilar to the taste of his own come. But he's making her make those noises, breathy moans muffled by Esben kissing her, and he listens out and tries to follow them, and actually listens to Emil when he tells him to mix it up or use the flat of his tongue more because he wants to be the best damn lay she, or any of them, have ever had, and definitely better than Viktor.

It takes her what feels like a long time to come, which Yuri’s not sure whether it’s a bad thing – his tongue is definitely starting to ache – but the smile she gives him as she pulls herself up is giddy and a little unfocused, and he can’t help smiling back, an unfamiliar warmth rushing through him that has less to do with him and more to do with how he’s made her feel.

He ducks into the en suite to wash his face, and returns to find Esben sitting on the edge of the bed, tearing the plastic wrapping off a box of condoms, while Emil and Aure lie on the bed together, Emil’s cock in Aure’s hand.

Aure pulls her lips away from Emil’s neck to say, “Yuri, I want all of you to fuck me. Is that cool with you?”

“Yes?” He doesn’t exactly know – it’s not like he’s done this before – but he could definitely feel his cock starting to take interest again while he had his mouth on Aure’s cunt, and it happens again when he imagines fucking her. Even if yesterday didn’t really count, tonight will.

He sits down next to Esben, who removes one of the foil packets from the box and hands it over to Aure, and Yuri watches, rapt, as she tears it open and slides it onto Emil’s cock before rolling fully onto her back and drawing her legs up. “Come on then.”

Esben’s arms wrap around Yuri from behind, pulling him more or less into his lap. “Are you leaving tomorrow?” he murmurs in Yuri’s ear.

“Yeah. Early.” Yuri shifts, leaning back against Esben’s chest, feeling the erection pressing against his tailbone like a promise as Emil climbs on top of Aure and pushes inside.

“Pity. I really wanted to fuck between your thighs.” Esben’s hand reaches back past Yuri’s balls, and one finger brushes across Yuri’s arsehole, and though the touch is light it’s shocking in its intensity. “Would you let me try that? Not inside you, I’d just drizzle some lube all down here and get you to squeeze around my cock.”

“Ah. I’ll think about it.” Yuri manages, his voice coming out high and strained. He feels stupid saying it, but between the way Esben’s finger’s gentle pressure over his arsehole is setting unfamiliar nerves aflame and the new vulnerability he feels at the idea of actually getting _fucked_ himself, he doesn’t think he can manage anything else.

“Mm. You do that.” Esben traces one more circle with the pad of his finger, then slides his hand back up to cup Yuri’s cock, now mostly hard again. “Or you could do it to me. I’m good with either.”

“Cool,” Yuri replies, unconsciously arching into Esben’s touch as he watches Emil’s hips pistoning, Aure’s hand on the back of his neck dragging him down into an urgent kiss, better than any porn he’s ever seen. It’ll be his turn soon, and his cock jerks a little just thinking about it.

But when Emil comes with a long, throaty moan and Esben moves over to take his place, kneeling up and pulling Aure forward onto his cock with a grin, it startles Yuri when he finds himself half-wishing he was in her place and not his.

Whatever. It doesn’t have to be weird, because it’s just sex, and everyone should do what they like with the people they want to do it with, or whatever. And he’s missed his chance right now in any case, Aure’s climbing into Esben’s lap and bouncing up and down on his cock, the two of them louder together than Emil and Aure were, and Yuri can see the base of Esben’s cock where it disappears inside her, _holy shit._

Neither of them last long like that, coming with long drawn-out groans and collapsing sideways still entangled, their heads only just missing Yuri’s feet, Aure breaking out into giggles when her eyes meet his.

“Your turn, Yuri, How do you want me?”

When Yuri hesitates – unsure what she wants him to say – she pulls away from Esben and rolls up onto her knees, shuffling forward – rather ungracefully for a figure skater, he thinks –  until she can kiss him, long and slow and deep; and it’s so much easier to just _do_ than to talk about it, to grab her arse with both hands and pull her in, to let her slide the condom on, let her push him backwards and crawl up his body, guiding him inside.

It’s incredible. It’s more about pressure than fine sensation, hotter than Esben’s mouth and tighter around his cock, waves of pressure as she rolls her hips and he’s forcing down his orgasm almost at once, not wanting to embarrass himself by coming too quickly, wanting it to last as long as possible. He closes his eyes and then opens them again when the sensation threatens to overwhelm him, clutching at Aure’s hips and trying to keep the movement of his hips in sync with hers, watching as her breasts bounce and she throws her head back and moans long and loud, clamping down on Yuri’s cock until he can’t hold back any longer, and follows her over the edge with a gasp.

For a few moments all he can do is lie there, breathing hard. He’s more than used to feeling used up physically but what’s unfamiliar is the way he feels inside his mind. He half-wants to pass out in his own bed immediately and half to stay here and _cuddle_ , which is ridiculous and really not very him.

Instead he goes to wash up, flopping back down on the bed in Aure's place as she gets up for her turn in the bathroom, his weariness rapidly catching up with him.

“Time is it?” he mumbles, then realises they're probably not going to understand his English if that's how he speaks it, and repeats himself more clearly.

“Eleven thirty,” Emil replies from the armchair, where he's looking at his phone. He's put his boxers back on, and they have little circuit boards printed on them, which Yuri thinks inanely is taking dedication to his theme a bit too far.

“Right.” Late, but not inexcusably so. Should he make his excuses? He does have to be up at six, but who the hell cares?

At that moment Aure emerges from the bathroom, clad in a hotel dressing gown, and brandishes Emil’s still-mostly-full bottle of vodka. “Who's drinking?” she asks, mostly rhetorically, and Yuri takes that as his answer.

It's past two when he stumbles back to his own room, and despite the fact that Emil was making them drink a glass of water for every shot he still feels decidedly rough when his alarm goes the next morning. He pulls his hood up and hides beneath a combination of sunglasses and headphones even though it's decidedly overcast out, and it's not until he's flying over the Atlantic that he's come round enough to think about all that's happened.

He'll see Emil for Rostelecom in any case; Aure perhaps in Barcelona. Esben, he doesn't know.

Whatever. It is what it is.

He blames the hollowness in his stomach on the hangover, closes his eyes, and turns his music up.


	3. Rostelecom Cup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New category/tags this chapter: F/M, BDSM, Under-Negotiated Kink

****As Viktor Nikiforov tackles Yuuri Katsuki to the ice in front of eighteen thousand spectators at the Cup of China and who knows how many millions more watching around the world, in a kitchen in St Petersburg, one Yuri Plisetsky lets out a wordless groan of disgust; and despite the fact that the video cuts immediately to replays and the Russian commentator – _Zhurnakov, why is it always fucking Zhurnakov_ – seems to be ignoring the moment entirely in favour of reciting a laundry list of all Viktor’s gold medals by age 23 – seriously, _fuck_ that guy – Yuri slams the lid of his laptop shut, rolls off the bed and stomps into Lilia’s kitchen, where he pours himself a glass of water, drains half of it in one go and says, “Ugh,” again, for good measure.

For all that he’s unwittingly taken a flying shit all over Yuri’s first senior season, Katsuki is a damn sight more talented than fucking Zhurnakov ever was. And even Yuri’s not quite enough of an asshole to blame him for Viktor being, well, Viktor.

But even with the full weight of Viktor Nikiforov the figure skating legend behind him, it’s clear from today’s performance that Yuri can still psych Katsudon out if he needs to. The Yuuri Katsuki of yesterday’s SP was not the same as the Yuuri Katsuki of that free; and a Yuuri Katsuki who loses to Chulanont has no hope when faced with _real_ competition.

Yuri will need to study that free programme of his, even so. Viktor’s choreography doesn’t fuck about, Katsudon has three quads to his two, and his famous PCS scores are always a potential threat. If he does somehow manage to hit the mark both times, then Yuri will need to have a plan in place if he’s still going to take gold.

Which he _is,_ so.

The NHK Trophy and Trophée de France he misses live, but catches the important programmes on YouTube afterwards – important being Otabek Altin, who Yuri was aware of from last year’s Worlds and who’s qualified for the Final for the first time this year; Seung-Gil Lee and Michele Crispino, who probably won’t but who he will have to face at Rostelecom; and Christophe Giacometti, who was last year’s silver medallist but just doesn’t seem to have it this year despite his deliberately provocative programmes, rumours of retirement already circling him like vultures.

No real threats among them, he thinks. Altin’s not quite on his level, and if Katsuki doesn’t get his shit together, Yuri only has to figure out what to do about fucking JJ and this could be his year.

The day after France he’s sat beside the rink with his legs up on the barrier, uncrossing and recrossing his ankles, and supposedly watching Mila’s free skate – but what he’s actually doing is scrolling down the list of Rostelecom men’s singles qualifiers for probably the fifth day in a row, even though he’s had it memorised practically since the assignments were announced.

 _It’s research_ , he tells himself with a private smirk. Of a kind, anyway.

After all, there’s more than one thing he wants in Moscow.

He considers his potential options, one by one:

Katsuki – no. (As funny as it would be. Viktor would _lose his shit._ )

JJ – double no with an extra side of _eww_.

Seung-Gil Lee – very probably not, despite that ridiculous rainbow getup he’s sporting for his SP. Yuri encountered him a few times in juniors and found him thoroughly cold – if he does even fuck, he probably does it _efficiently_.

Michele Crispino, he discounts even quicker. Yuri’s heard enough weird shit about him and his sister to know he doesn’t want to be within a couple of kilometres of that when it inevitably blows.

Which leaves Emil Nekola. Which, okay. Yuri doesn’t object to Emil. They didn’t trade much more than a few kisses last time but he got the impression Emil would probably be up for something more. Maybe he’ll know someone else too, if Yuri’s lucky.

He pulls a face, clicking his phone off. Just his luck that when he’s decided he’s going to have as much sex as he can, to then get the least fuckable assignment in the whole series.

He unlocks his phone again and texts Esben to tell him that much.

He doesn’t get a reply until he’s about to go to bed that night:

 

 **Esben:** _lol. want me to ask Aure if she has any friends she can send ur way?_

 

Yuri hesitates.

Is this normal, for them?

He supposes it must be, for Esben to offer.

 

 **Yuri:** _sure_

 **Yuri:** _thx_

 

Maybe this is just how it works. It’s not like there’s time during a competition for any of them to really get to know each other, so it makes sense for there to be a loose network of people who are interested in having some fun together, names passed along and connections made. Now that he’s found his way in it should be easy, if all he has to do is get a recommendation.

This is going to be his weekend, in every way. He’s not going to lose to fucking JJ again, especially not on his home turf; he’s the new star around here, and he’s going to win that gold medal.

He doesn’t need Viktor Nikiforov to hold his hand. Doesn’t need anyone but himself.

They land in Moscow four days later, and Grandpa picks Yuri up from the airport and drives him to the hotel. It’s a long trip through the ever-present city traffic, and Yuri feels himself relax by degrees, munching on the pirozhki that Grandpa always brings in flagrant defiance of his nutritional plan. Grandpa asks how skating’s going, and Yuri thinks about looking up at JJ on the podium, about Viktor and Katsudon making eyes at each other and Esben’s white T-shirt and shower damp hair all in the space of a moment, and says fiercely that he’s going to win gold this weekend, nearly spits it, though Grandpa knows how he is and just smiles and says, “I know you will.”

The rest of the journey is spent updating Yuri on the minutiae of life in the _khrushchyovka_ – interspersed with sarcastic comments directed at the other drivers – and Yuri finds himself smiling to hear about Elena Dmitrievna’s three sons getting Vasily from Apartment 14 drunk on moonshine the night before his wedding and the twins from next door putting their mother’s favourite gilet on the dog and taking it out for a walk, because even though he knows he’d be chewing the furniture within a week if he were back there, it’s Grandpa’s world, and he’s happy with it.

He leaves him with another, this time more careful hug and a promise to see him tomorrow, his good mood evaporating instantly when he walks into the hotel lobby and sees Viktor, wearing sunglasses indoors at eight in the evening like a parody of a celebrity, busy waxing lyrical about Katsuki as if the circle of Russian reporters surrounding him are even supposed to give a shit – and then of course dragging Yuri in when he’s asked a question he doesn’t want to answer.

“I’m going to win,” he snaps and walks off, ignoring all the questions shouted after him; and when he gets to the elevators, the choice between joining the two Crispinos, Emil and Seung-Gil Lee, who are apparently involved in some kind of drama, and Katsudon is an easy one to make, though he does raise a hand in Emil’s direction, in recognition of their shared night together in Canada.

He wouldn’t have said anything if Katsudon hadn’t said something first; but of course he has to throw down the gauntlet, and of course it’s only natural for Yuri to react.

He still says, “I’m going to have Viktor stay in Russia,” even though he knows it’s not true, Viktor is hopelessly smitten and would follow Katsudon to the ends of the earth if he asked him. But perhaps if he thinks he’s got competition, it’ll motivate him to skate properly this time around. Or to give up entirely. Whatever.

Yuri gets out at his floor, opens up his room – which is exactly the same as every other hotel room he’s ever stayed in – takes a running jump onto the bed, and kicks off his shoes. He gets his phone out and opens Instagram, likes Leo de la Iglesia’s picture of a cute dog, and pulls a face at a selfie of JJ and his ridiculous girlfriend at Sheremetyevo Airport, because why is he even _following_ JJ anyway. He has nothing from Esben or Aure, or any other messages worth reading.

So he has a shower, and jacks off thinking about that night in Canada, Esben on his knees and Aure’s body beneath yellow satin.

He wakes up only a little late the next morning and gets a good hour and a half of public practice in, sandwiched between ladies and ice dance, before the rink is cleared and readied for the first events, just enough to keep his momentum up for the evening.

Of course Katsuki is there too, and Viktor, bundled up in a camel coat with coffee cup in hand and looking like something out of a rich people’s lifestyle magazine – and really, Yuri’s embarrassed that he ever even looked up to that loser, who can look at all he’s achieved – more than anyone in the history of figure skating – and in the same breath just throw it all away so easily.

Viktor is gone; and the man standing over there, practically nose to nose with Katsuki across the barrier, may share Viktor’s name and wear his face but he’s not Viktor, not in any meaningful way.

 _He was supposed to be mine_.

The thought’s sudden and entirely unexpected, and immediately as pissed off with himself for thinking it as he ever has been with Viktor, Yuri throws himself into a quad Salchow and over-rotates. He just about manages to keep his balance on landing, and thinks he probably got away with it as far as the mostly clueless public is concerned, but still. He should have known better.

This is the problem with those two: he gets caught up in their drama. It happened at Onsen on Ice, and if he doesn’t stay the fuck out of their way, it’ll happen here too.

He retreats to the gym, and stays there until it’s time to get ready.

He’s listening to [ _Crush_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8mYd2X_9rrs) by Pendulum slightly too loudly while doing his stretches, ignoring the too many other people packed into this shitty little room with him, when his phone rings.

He knows as soon as he sees Grandpa’s name on the screen.

“ _Yuratchka_.”

“You can’t come.” It comes out too quiet, and he has to repeat himself as soon as he’s out in the corridor, where he won’t be overheard. “You can’t come, I said. It’s okay.” And while it isn’t really, not at all, he understands. He knows that this must be one of the bad days, and that if Grandpa had been physically able to get out of bed and drive here then he wouldn’t be calling.

“ _Hmm._ ” Grandpa knows it too, but he also understands – that some things are okay because they have to be. “ _I’ll come if I can. And if I can’t, I’ll watch it on the internet._ ”

“I know,” Yuri says. It’s all he can say.

“ _Good luck._ ”

“Thank you, _deda._ I’m going to win,” Yuri replies, and hangs up before the lump in his throat gives him away.

He’s said it, so now he’ll have to.

He opens his music player back up, skips to [ _Under the Waves_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xc6tpOgm1HE), and refuses to think much of anything until he’s done his makeup and put his costume on, and he’s looking in the mirror at a version of himself he still doesn’t recognise.

He’s skating second to last, and when he steps out to the rink, Yakov and Lilia parting the curtain for him like he’s royalty, he feels like he’s going into battle.

He comes in third.

Third, and it’s all his fault. For letting it all get to him: no Grandpa; the home crowd and the weight of their expectations; the happy couple, and their mockery.

Onsen on Ice was always a farce, that much was obvious; and okay, Yuri’s a realist. For all his posturing he knows he just doesn’t have JJ’s technical score and won’t match it this season, and he’s relying on him to screw up. But to place behind Katsudon, who he was teaching to land his own jumps not six months ago –

_Humiliating._

Trailing behind Yakov, Lilia and a lost-looking Katsuki – suddenly dumped on them by Viktor, and Yuri has a lot more time for Makkachin than he does for his owner but he’s still not going anywhere _near_ that – out into the snowy night, he’s hunkered down in his hoodie against the biting wind when somebody steps out in front of him.

He opens his mouth, ready to tell whichever of his Angels has found the service entrance to fuck off in no uncertain terms – but the words die in his mouth as he realises he recognises her. She’s a skater, and she gets straight to the point: “Yuri. I’m Sveta. A friend of Aure’s.”

Ukrainian, he thinks, from the accent. Which is good, because he’s not sure he has it in him to speak English any more today.

But. He’s feeling pretty fucking shitty, and, well. She’s a _girl_.

He thinks he would have preferred a boy. Someone he could _fight_ a little, because he doubts he has it in him even for careful right now.

She _is_ a friend of Aure’s though, so he should probably give her the benefit of the doubt. And she’s... not beautiful exactly, but _interesting-_ looking. Dark hair in a messy ponytail, fresh-faced and dark-eyed, cheeks flushed from the cold. A strong chin and a wide mouth that he thinks he’d really like on his cock, if she’s willing to put it there.

“I have to shower. And eat.”

It’s hardly encouraging even by his standards, but her answering smile is sharp, and he decides he likes that. “So go shower and then join me for room service? Room 248.”

For probably the first time today, Yuri finds himself smiling back. “Okay. Cool.”

“See you later,” she says primly, heading back towards the stadium entrance; and Yuri notices that while Yakov and Lilia have kept walking and left him behind a little, Katsudon’s stalled, and is looking back with a curiosity that makes Yuri glad he couldn’t understand them, because God knows the last thing he needs right now is some concerned older brother bullshit from him as well.

He stalks off after his coaches without a world, firmly shoulder checking Katsudon as he passes.

Back in his room, he plans to take a quick shower but finds himself lingering under the hot spray, mainly because he’s still not sure what to do, and he’s not used to being unsure. But what the fuck is he going to do otherwise? Eat alone and just lie here low-key hating himself until he finally falls asleep?

If he goes and changes his mind, he can always leave again.

So he dries his hair, throws on some clean clothes, grabs his phone and makes his way downstairs.

He knocks twice and it’s only a few moments until Sveta lets him in. She’s wearing a tank top and leggings – no bra – and her ass is tight and inviting when she turns away.

“Do you know what you want?” she asks, and Yuri gapes for a moment before realising she’s looking for the menu.

_Food. Of course._

When he doesn’t answer she turns around, scrutinising him for a moment, where he’s still more or less standing in the doorway. “You did want to eat, right?”

 _Not really_ , he decides. _Not now._

“Look,” he says, folding his arms and scuffing his foot against the floor, “I’ve had a fuck awful day, okay? And – no offence, but I don’t have the energy to make friends or whatever. I just want to forget about it for a while and then go to sleep. So if that’s not what you want, then you should kick me out, I guess.”

Sveta gives him a look. “So no food then.”

Yuri barely stops himself from growling in frustration. “No.”

“Okay.” Sveta drops the menu she’s holding back on the table, turns and flops gracelessly onto the bed. “Now stop hovering in the doorway and get over here.”

So Yuri does, kicking off his shoes and dropping down onto the mattress beside her, bouncing a little. Immediately she’s put a hand on his neck and is kissing him, swift and forceful.

 _Yeah_ , this is good. He puts his hands on her waist and encourages her when she climbs into his lap, weight on his thighs, and they kiss for a while before she murmurs against his lips, “You like it rough?”

It’s like his entire body skips a beat.

“What?”

“You don’t know. Okay.” He considers protesting, but he doesn’t know what he’d say and she’s already kissing down his neck, warm and wet and when he slides his hands down, curving them around her hips, suddenly she yanks him backwards by his hair. It stings and it feels _amazing_ and immediately he wants it again.

“You like that?”

“ _Yeah_ ,” he breathes, determined not to overthink it.

He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing here, but it feels like it’s what he needs.

Sveta tugs on his hair again, pulling his head backwards and his spine into an arch, her other hand resting over his throat, like a promise. “Here’s how it’s gonna go,” she tells him, in a voice that’s used to being obeyed. “You can touch me, but I’m in control. If you try and take over then you don’t get to touch me any more. Yes?”

“Okay,” Yuri agrees, “yes.” The pain in his scalp is a good pain, like a really good massage, pooling deep and warm in his hardening cock, and her ass is tight under his hands. She yanks him forward again, her other hand pulling the collar of his T-shirts aside, and sinks her teeth into the base of his neck, beautifully sharp, sucking in a bruise.

He’s not sure if this is weird, but decides he doesn’t care: he’s sliding his hands up her sides to her tits and she’s moaning into his mouth and biting his lips, pulling his T-shirt up and he’s yanking it off, getting his head stuck in his haste and gasping into the fabric when she pinches both his nipples, the pain going directly to his cock this time, enough to make him fully hard.

“You like that,” she says; it’s a statement not a question, and he thinks _whatever feels good, right?_ and replies breathlessly, “yeah, yeah.”

She still hasn’t touched his cock though, and she’s sitting too far back on his thighs for him to get any friction. Nobody’s ever made him wait before and he’s having trouble ignoring it, pulsing needily against his sweats, but he knows she wants him to take what he’s given and forces himself to behave. She’s rakes her nails down his back until he arches away from the pain, sucks on his earlobe and whispers, “I want you _desperate_ for it,” like she can read his mind, then, “Take my shirt off.”

He doesn’t hesitate, pulling it off and throwing it over the edge of the bed before running his hands reverently down her chest, cupping her tits in his palms and rolling his thumbs over her nipples. She moans, loud and unrestrained, pushing him away and dropping her head so she can suck – no, _bite_ his nipples, worrying at them with her teeth until the pleasure-pain drives every other thought from his mind.

When she shoves his shoulders he flops obediently onto his back, groaning in frustration when she climbs up his body, still not touching his cock, hooking her feet around his thighs to keep him pinned. “Sveta!” he whines, nudging his hips up as much as he dares, not that they connect with anything.

Immediately her hand fists in his hair, yanking it back and baring his neck. “Nah-ah-ah,” she chides, closing her lips over the hickey she’s made and sucking, the pain making him more, impossibly harder. “First, I’m going to get mine. I’m going to get naked, and you’re going to get me off with your fingers. And _then_ maybe we’ll see about letting you come.”

It takes all his discipline to hold himself still as she rolls off him and gets to her feet, shimmying out of her remaining clothes, then climbing back over his body until she’s straddling his hips and lowering her nipple into his mouth, and he laves with his tongue and reaches down between her legs, searching for her –

“ _Ah_!”

She flinches and pulls away, which is decidedly _not_ what he was going for.

“Too hard.” She’s looking down at him, and Yuri feels an angry, embarrassed heat rising in his cheeks. “Do it again. _Gently._ ”

Gritting his teeth – _fuck_ , this is mortifying, Katya never complained, nor did Aure, and it’s taking everything he has not to say something rude in response – Yuri moves his hand back up and cups Sveta ever-so-lightly between her legs, mollified somewhat when she hums in pleasure and drops her head to suck on his earlobe.

He’s careful after that, tentative, one hand on her tits and the other exploring between her folds, dipping into her cunt and spreading the slickness forward and around her clit, circling it with one finger. It’s – easier, this, knowing that when she moans and says, “Yeah, just like that,” it’s an instruction to be obeyed. He doesn’t have to feel out of his depth here, not when he has her to tell him what she wants from him, exactly where and how hard, to bite down on sensitive skin and tell him, “Two fingers inside me, thumb on my clit, come on.”

So he does, and she gasps out _ah, ah, ah_ into his neck and her cunt tightens around his fingers as she comes, collapsing onto his chest and squashing his own arm against his rock-hard cock, enough to make him gasp.

“Mmm. Good.” She nuzzles his jaw, sated, and he can tell she doesn’t miss it when the shift of her hips makes him gasp again and bite his lip. “Now lick your fingers clean.”

There’s a vague spark of alarm in his mind at her words, but when he raises his sticky fingers to his lips and his eyes meet hers, it’s not as awkward as he’d feared. It’s... intimate, heady, and as he watches her watching him, she may be a near-stranger but in this moment, she _sees_ him.

When she smiles and murmurs, “Good,” he should hate it but he supposes he’s too aroused to care, because it makes him feel as warm inside as if she’d touched him.

She shuffles back on her knees, cool fingers curling around the waistband of his sweats; and he hisses, “ _Yes_ ,” eyes shuttering at the prospect of finally being touched, making her laugh.

“I want you to beg me for it.”

_Beg me for it._

He is Yuri Nikolaevich Plisetsky, and he doesn’t _beg_.

Except when he does, apparently, because the words tumble out of his mouth before he could even consider stemming them: “Please, yes please,” obligingly arching his back, and raising his hips to help her pull his sweats and boxers down in one, leaving everything bunched around his knees and his cock fully on display, flushed and leaking.

“Lift your shoulders,” she says, closing her hands around his wrists and arranging his arms behind his head, left hand clasping right wrist with his right palm against the back of his head, lowering him back down, and pushing the hair out of his eyes with surprising tenderness.

Then she strokes his cock, and he _howls_.

“No coming without my permission, Yura,” she warns him, bracing herself over his body and murmuring low in his ear, her hand _so good so good_ between their bodies, working him slower than he likes, stretching his pleasure out like he’s a band in danger of snapping.

It isn’t long before he has to warn her, “I’m close,” voice shaky, and she kisses him soft and sweet and says, “Ask me for it.”

It should be hard, but she’s strung him out to the point where it’s already the easiest thing in the world to suck in a breath and arch beneath her like he knows she wants him to, and ask, “May I come?”

“ _Please_ may I come,” she corrects him, grip twisting around the head of his cock in a way that almost has him losing it then and there.

“ _Please_ may I come, please, please –”

“No. Not yet.”

Their eyes lock, and she looks so pleased to be denying him that it makes his heart do something complicated in his chest even as he’s gritting his teeth and working to hold his orgasm at bay.

“I can’t – _ah!_ ” He actually yelps when she pulls on his balls in a way that is decidedly _not_ pleasant. “What the hell?”

“ _Watch your tone._ ” He swallows as she wraps her other hand over the base of his throat, the pressure barely there but enough to make his stomach lurch all the same. “This is what I want, Yura. And the longer we do this, the better it’s going to be for you. Yes?”

He _wants_ to, he realises. He wants to _please_ her, which is weird and kind of terrifying and he doesn’t know what expression’s on his face, but she leans in and kisses him through it, kisses him until he’s resolved, until he pulls away just enough to say, “Yes. Yes.”

“Good,” she replies, kissing him again as she reaches for his cock once more, swallowing the gasps and moans from his lips that are coming harder now, the hand on his throat anchoring him, even as he asks again and again she tells him no, and he finds himself babbling, “But I can’t, stop, _please_ , I can’t –”

She lets go of him so abruptly that it surprises him, dropping her other hand from his throat, leaving it feeling unexpectedly bare. “Do you want me to stop?” she asks, expression concerned for the first time; and Yuri just looks at her stupidly for a moment, trying to catch up with how quickly the mood has changed.

“What?”

“You said stop,” she reminds him – and _oh yeah,_ he supposes he did.

“No, I – it’s good. I just needed a moment.”

_I didn’t want to fail._

“Okay.” Her smile is different this time, softer and less practice, not that he doesn’t like the other one, and this time he’s the one who strains up and kisses her deep and slow, until she says, “Tell me when you’re ready.”

He wants to reach – but no, she positioned him how she wants him and hasn’t told him he can move, so instead he nudges her hand with his chin until she realises what he wants, and wraps it back around his throat.

She smiles, and he can feel himself smiling back.

“Ready,” he says; and this time he barely lasts a minute before he’s already feeling that telltale tightening in his balls, and he’s gripping his own wrist hard enough to bruise. “Please Sveta, may I come, please –”

“Yes, you may,” she says, “come for me –” and that’s enough, her hand tightens just a fraction around his throat as his eyes fall closed and he comes with a shout, so hard he sees stars.

When she lifts her come-covered fingers to his lips, he licks them clean without a moment’s hesitation.

Then she’s kissing him again, rolling off him and pulling her with him onto his side, reaching behind his head and loosening his hands so that he can stretch his aching arms out and then wrap them around her as he gets his breath back. He knows he should probably get up or something, but the idea makes him feel distinctly unhappy and she’s holding his head and stroking his hair, and it feels so right that he just holds her close and lets himself stop thinking.

He’s not sure how long he drifts for; maybe a quarter-hour, turning in her arms until she’s spooning him, one arm across his chest keeping him anchored, the other still carding through his hair, making him think that if he were a cat, he’d purr.

The moment fades when she yawns a little too loudly in his ear and mumbles, “I’m falling asleep here.”

“Mm,” he agrees reluctantly, forcing his eyes open. “I’ll be out of your hair soon.”

“Pity.” She kisses the shell of his ear. “I’d try and persuade you to go again if I didn’t have a free skate to win in the morning.”

He grins. “And if I didn’t have a free skate to win in the evening, I’d say yes.” Before he can second-guess himself he promises, “I’ll watch you.”

“Well, then I’ll _have_ to win.” She leans over and presses a lingering kiss to his lips. “I’m gonna go shower. _Davai_ for tomorrow.”

“And you,” he replies, rolling over to watch her disappear into the en suite, and looks at the closed door until the shower starts to run.

He dresses and goes back to his own room, changes into his oversized sleepshirt with the cutaway neck, and takes a selfie with his hickey on display.

It takes him a few goes to get it right: he wants it to look sexy, but looking up through his lashes is overdoing it, and looking straight into the camera too aggressive for what he wants. In the end the secret turns out to be just shooting himself from the mouth downwards, his small, knowing smile in the top left of the frame and the purpling bruise stark at the bottom right, where it’s tucked against his neck beside the hollow of his collarbone.

He selects Aure’s name in his contacts and presses Send.

 

 **Yuri:** _thanks x_

 

He passes out not long after, woken up just before six the next morning by his stomach growling insistently, throws some clothes on – taking care that his hickey’s not on display – and goes straight down to breakfast. Katsudon’s already there, alone at a corner table nursing a green tea and an apple and looking like he’s barely slept; and Yuri takes pity on him, going over and plonking his full tray of food down opposite him.

Katsudon mumbles a good morning, and Yuri thinks, _this is what happens when you depend on Viktor,_ but to say it would be too cruel even for him.

He may have started this weekend attempting to psych Katsudon out, but if he’s honest with himself, that’s not actually what he wants at all. What he wants is for Katsudon to keep his shit together long enough to skate his very best, and then to do even better himself, because for all that he hates his stupid face, he respects him as a skater.

Yuri scowls when he sees JJ walk in, because JJ can still fucking choke for all he cares.

To Katsudon, he says, “Don’t fuck it up today.”

It’s admittedly not much of a pep talk, but Katsudon gives him a watery smile and replies, “I’ll try not to. Thanks,” and Yuri covers his sudden awkwardness with a scowl and attacks his eggs with slightly more force than they really need.

They don’t really talk after that; Katsudon’s practically radiating stress and Yuri bails as soon as he’s finished eating to avoid getting sucked in, smuggling his cup of tea back up to his room and drinking it while he gets ready. Then he heads straight over to the rink, where he ignores Katsudon as much as he possibly can during morning practice – though it turns out it’s kind of difficult when you have the same coach – and puts his headphones on as soon as he’s off the ice, daring anyone to try and talk to him.

When he’s supposed to be eating lunch, he sneaks into the stands to watch the ladies.

Sveta is Svetlana Kovalenko of Ukraine, and she’s third up, which is respectable but means she probably won’t make the Final. Yuri intends to pay attention to the first two skaters, he really does, but he can’t help it if his mind keeps wandering. If he can’t stop thinking about last night, about the weight of her hand on his throat, and what it meant.

He gets out his phone.

 

 **Yuri:** _okay so like_

 **Yur** **i:** _if someone tells you what to do in bed, or you tell them_

 

He hesitates, not entirely sure what he’s actually asking – but before he can figure it out, Esben’s already replying.

 

 **Esben:** _bdsm?_

 **Yuri** **:** _isn't that like tying people up and hitting them and stuff_

 **Esben** **:** _doesn't have to be. If one person gives orders and the other person follows them then that's dominance and submission_

 

Yuri pauses with his fingers over the keyboard, remembering the way Sveta kissed him afterwards, how she held him and stroked his hair until he felt like himself again.

 

 **Esben:** _i take it you met Svetlana then_

 **Yuri:** <image>

 

Well-fucked is a good look on him, he decides.

 

 **Esben:** _enjoyed it?_

 **Yuri:** _yes_

 **Esben:** _good. That's important_

 **Esben:** _read this_[ _http://www.keepingitkinky.net/bdsm/kink-basics/consent/getting-giving-consent/_](http://www.keepingitkinky.net/bdsm/kink-basics/consent/getting-giving-consent/) _and remember you can always ask me anything_

 **Yuri:** _yes dad_

 

He rolls his eyes at the screen, but he's smiling.

He makes the mistake of taking a drink of water, and nearly chokes on it when he sees Esben’s reply:

 

 **Esben:** _sorry, not my kink_

 **Yuri:** _asshole_

 

He turns off his screen without waiting for a reply, just as Sveta’s name is announced and she skates out onto the ice, her scarlet dress making Yuri think of fire.

“ _Davai!_ ” he shouts, and though he knows she won’t have heard him, when she skates a nearly perfect programme he finds himself grinning all the same.

One of the things they never tell you about competitive figure skating is the sheer amount of waiting around it involves. Flying across the world for several days, and a maximum of seven minutes and twenty seconds to show what you can do. Public practice, wait. Off-ice, wait. Warm up, wait, wait some more, avoid eye contact, try not to scream. He’s as used to it now as he’s ever going to get, but that still doesn’t mean he likes it.

When Yakov tells him half way through his post-conditioning waiting that his grandfather’s here, he’s honestly a little surprised, which of course immediately makes him feel guilty. He’d not let himself think about it, he realises, because that leads to expectations and all.

Despite all the waiting he doesn’t actually have much time, but it’s enough for Yuri to scoff one katsudon pirozhki before Yakov gets wind of them, and for his resolve to be renewed. Once he’s helped Grandpa find his seat, he goes back to the room allocated for waiting around in and sits down, pulling his legs up onto the chair and hugging his knees while he thinks.

It’s not enough to just ‘do his best’ and rely on JJ and Katsudon to choke. Katsudon may be looking decidedly shaky without Viktor by his side but he’s nothing if not unpredictable, and JJ’s consistency is just as annoying as everything else about him. And while Yuri can’t pull new quads out of his arse in the next hour, he can do _something_. If he pushes two more jumps to the second half... well, it might possibly kill him. But if he survives it and the other two don’t land all theirs, it could be enough.

He looks around – there are two other skaters in the room, but he thinks they’re both ice dancers and they appear to be asleep anyway – and then gets to his feet and dances it half way through, stops, changes his mind and dances it through again.

When he’s made up his mind what goes where he gets out his skating notebook and pen and writes it out, checks the time, and then goes to get changed.

His costume’s high-necked enough that it should hide his hickey, he decides while doing his makeup in the hastily rigged-up excuse for a dressing room, but he’ll cover it just in case, because he doesn’t trust cameras and the last thing he needs is it plastered all over the internet. He takes off his T-shirt, digging his corrector palette out of his bag because he isn’t taking any chances, ignoring the speculative look from the woman beside him.

Of course, that’s when Katsudon walks in.

“Hey –”

Words seem to fail him as he sees what Yuri’s doing, their eyes meeting in the mirror, and Yuri can practically see the cogs turning. Katsudon saw him talking to Sveta last night, and this is not the kind of bruise he can claim is from skating.

Yuri rolls his eyes and starts applying orange corrector.

Katsuki sits down beside him and gets his own makeup bag out, not saying anything.

Yuri tops the corrector with heavy concealer and then setting spray for good measure, and then grits his teeth and keeps his jaw clamped shut because as much as he’s shit with tension, he prefers it to hearing whatever bullshit is threatening to come out of Katsudon’s mouth right now.

So he ignores him, does his face and gets into his costume, and Katsudon never says a word.

Then he waits, puts on his skates and gets on the ice for warmup, comes back and waits some more, running his new adjusted programme over and over in his mind to make sure he doesn’t get out there and accidentally skate the wrong version. He deliberately drops the bombshell on Yakov too late for him to attempt to do anything about it, and then his name is called and he skates out to the centre of the ice, letting the chants of the crowd buoy him just a little as the music starts, and then for the next two minutes and fifty-four seconds he skates his heart out.

He holds his finishing position one-two-three, then sinks to his knees, gasping, lungs burning, thinking for one awful mortifying moment that he’s going to throw up. It _has_ to be enough, he had nothing left to give – and he thinks, _hopes_ it is, as he pushes himself back up and skates on shaky legs to the kiss and cry.

Lilia sits beside him, eyes suspiciously wet, and when his score’s announced he jumps up, raising his arms in triumph because he’s _done it._ A new personal best. He’s done it, he _has_ to have done it, and he’s looking for Katsudon, already calling out to him –

But he’s already standing there, alone in the centre of the ice, and the sight takes Yuri’s breath away. He’s not sure what it is about him that’s so compelling, but in that moment, Yuri wonders if he feels a little of what Viktor feels.

He can’t look away until he knows: and when Katsuki pops that first combination, it’s clear that he’s choking. Not completely but _enough_ , enough that he’s not going to beat Yuri, and perhaps three months ago he would have been pleased but now it just makes him annoyed, because Katsuki’s _better than this._

He opens his mouth to tell him so, and of course that’s when fucking JJ turns up, and Yuri thinks he might have actually started something this time if Lilia hadn’t appeared at exactly the right moment.

He watches the rest of the competition on a screen in the corridor with a rapidly sinking heart; and as JJ goes into his finishing position, he turns away. Right now, he doesn’t want to know.

The podium is _awful_.

Yuri knows he’s supposed to be looking calm and professional or whatever, but JJ’s above him and Katsudon isn’t even there, and really, he could fucking _kill_.

If he had to lose to _someone_ , why couldn’t it be him?

He takes it back when Katsudon hugs five people in quick succession and then chases him down the corridor trying to make him the sixth, because what the _fuck_.

After that, he goes through the motions: gets changed, takes his makeup off. He says goodbye to Grandpa and then goes up to his room, drops his bag, kicks off his shoes and opens the brown paper bag Grandpa gave him, looking at the three remaining katsudon pirozhki inside.

 _Katsudon_.

Who’s probably feeling awful and alone and disappointing after coming fourth and only just getting into the Final by the skin of his teeth, and without Viktor to hold his hand and gross everyone out with, and _fuck_ , Yuri’s life was so much easier when he didn’t care.

He shoves his feet back into his shoes and takes the bag with him.

Okay, so his methods of cheering people up probably need some work, or something. Whatever. It seems to work out alright, him and Katsudon leaning against the freezing cold railing beside the road eating equally cold pirozhki while Yuri tries not to shiver out of his skin.

They split the third one between them, taking alternate bites because the other thing will probably fall to bits, and Yuri doesn’t say anything about loser germs or how nice it is that Viktor’s not here (even though it’s true). The moment is... peaceful. Almost like they’re friends. And even though they’re both disappointed and that part fucking sucks, it’s kind of okay.

He really isn’t expecting Katsudon to clear his throat and say, “So, are you going to see her again?”

“What? I – no.”

He’d love to deny it ever happened if he thought it would get him out of this conversation, but he doesn’t want to look like a _complete_ idiot.

“I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” Katsudon replies, and there’s an opening that’s leading up to a big _but_ if Yuri’s ever heard one.

“If you give me the talk as well then I swear to God I will kick you until I get my pirozhki back,” Yuri snaps – but it’s weak, and even though he refuses to look at Katsudon, he can practically feel his amusement.

He grits his teeth when the fucker actually _laughs._ “No talks, I promise. We just want you to be happy.”

 _We_ , he says. Like they’ve talked about it.

Yuri wonders if he’s ever felt this uncomfortable in his entire life.

“Come on,” Katsudon says, possibly taking pity on him. “Let’s go get ready. They might even have pizza.”

“Try not to get completely wasted this time,” Yuri replies, following him back towards the hotel. “I’m not looking after you.”

Yuri digs his phone out of his pocket as he walks; he’s got at least twenty messages, but the only one he opens is the one from Aure:

 

 **Aure** **:** _sexy! and congrats babe on making the final_

 **Aure:** _i wanna see you demo your new skills at euros ok?_

 

Because it’s Aure, Yuri doubts she means his skating.

 

 **Yuri:** _lookin fwd to it. skate canada reunion y/y_

 

When he looks up, Katsudon is standing there with an unreasonable expression on his face.

“What?”

“It’s just nice to see you smile.”

“Shut up,” Yuri mumbles, though there’s something apparently wrong with his face because he can’t quite stop himself smiling. “Come on. Let’s go get drunk.”

“Yurio, you’re _fifteen_.”

“Yeah? I’m Russian, and I lost to JJ _again._ I’m getting drunk.”

He puts his phone away, and follows Katsudon inside.


End file.
